I was 13 and DEEP in the midst of a divorce-fueled depression. I could only take so many late night trips truck shopping with dad before I started questioning whether or not the Lariat package was the way to go, or if I’d be better off living with him and my stepmom. He’d regularly sweeten the pot with a trip to White Castle, a restaurant at which my younger brother swore he could out eat me.

In my prime, I probably could have crushed at least 30 of those little burgers, easy. Jared wouldn’t have stood a fucking chance. It would’ve been a real Randy Johnson vs. that one bird scenario. Poof. Over before it began.

In 2003, I was living in Carman Hall, the freshman dorm at Eastern Illinois University. Rumor had it that it was built on swampland and that the girls tower could sink at any moment. It had a disgusting pond that some kid everyone called Skittles jumped into one night. It’s the same pond that one of the dorm’s night assistants had to fish his moped out of of.

I lived on the second floor, but knew the elevator well. It’s the building in which I first got drunk, first got a blowjob, and first heard Deja Entendu, so I’m sort of attached.

I had my very first
girlfriend, and my very last one for a long time, it would seem. She
was the neighbor to my best friend Dave, and was also best friends
with Dave’s girlfriend, Paige. I was sitting at home one night
when I got a phone call from Dave. He asked if I wanted a girlfriend.
What kind of stupid question was that? Of course I did. I was in
seventh grade. That was one of your main goals; obtain a Michael
Jordan rookie card, beat Super Mario 3 with no warps, and learn about
the female form, hopefully first hand. I was hopelessly ready. I was
voted to be next year’s Beta Club Vice President. I’d practically
memorized The Breakfast Club. I had my first pair of name brand
shoes.

I didn’t even know how I got there. I looked up and I’d suddenly arrived.

I sat in the drive thru as I had hundreds of times before, bathed in the soft, red glow of brake lights, and quietly cursed whatever part of my brain that drew me there. I studied the menu like I’d stumbled across some foreign establishment, which wasn’t the case at all. I was practically family. I knew Maria, the cashier whose son played trumpet in the band. I’d befriended Anna, who was working there in the midst of her third trimester and wasn’t sure if she’d come back after welcoming her baby boy into the world. I was some weird stranger to them, some guy who was overly polite, some guy who they probably questioned whether or not he had any friends. Point is, I’m familiar with the place.